


Jump For My Love

by oceans_and_lovers



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Love Actually, It's the Prime Minister storyline yay, Jon is a stressed dumb puppy in this, Mutual Pining, Sansa is wonderful as always, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceans_and_lovers/pseuds/oceans_and_lovers
Summary: “All Jon wanted, as he stepped from the car and plastered a smile on his face, waving for the press and the public, was a cup of tea. And a chocolate biscuit."-Jon Snow is the Prime Minister. Sansa Stark is his new assistant.Love, actually, is all around.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 116





	Jump For My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiya/gifts).



✨

All Jon wanted, as he stepped from the car and plastered a smile on his face, waving for the press and the public, was a cup of tea. And a chocolate biscuit. 

Since the election result had been announced, he'd been swept up in excitement and relief, happy to grin and say the right words to the camera. 

But now, now he was tired. 

"This way, sir," Sam said, pointing past the security guards to no. 10 Downing Street, and finally, after years of effort, he stepped across the threshold. 

_I might die if I have to keep smiling,_ he thought, cheeks aching, but when Sam said, "Would you like to meet your household staff?" he tried to smile properly. 

"This is Trevor, and Jean, your housekeeper, " Sam said, beginning to walk down the line of staff waiting in the next room and dutifully Jon followed, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. 

"And this is Sansa Stark," Sam said, when they reached the end of the row, "An assistant here."

 _Wow,_ Jon thought dumbly, blinking and slowly raising his hand, _she’s pretty..._

Shaking himself, Jon forced his hand to grasp hers and her grip was surprisingly firm as she said, "Pleased to meet you, Jon. I mean, Mr Snow. Prime Minister."

A blush stained her cheeks and Sansa bit her lip. 

Jon blinked again and let go of her hand, saying, "Yes, I'm pleased to meet you too, Miss Stark. Sansa."

His exhaustion must have been getting to him, because when Sansa smiled at him, Jon felt a bit lightheaded, and his thoughts stuttered as he took a step away from her.

“Which do you prefer?” Jon said abruptly, reeling round to face her again, slightly unsteady on the polished floor, “Miss Stark or Sansa?” 

“Sansa, sir.”

“Right. Well,” Jon said, feeling his face heat as he nodded too many times. “Good to know.”

_Get a grip,_ Jon berated himself when he was alone, safe in his new office. _You’re the Prime Minister, for god’s sake._

Jon sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. 

He really needed that cup of tea now.

  
  


***

When he’d won, Jon had said, “Now let’s get to work,” and though he knew it would be hard, he hadn’t realised just how much work was involved in being Prime Minister. From the constant phone calls and paperwork, to the squabbling ministers and intrusive press, he was overwhelmed.

And it was only his third day.

He was sitting practically buried beneath reports and letters that needed signing, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Jon called, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry for interrupting, sir.”

Straightening up, Jon rubbed the back of his neck as Sansa came in, balancing a tray on one hand as she closed the door.

She looked perfect, not a hair out of place, completely collected.

_Did she really have to be so pretty?_

She must think he looks like shit, and although it was beyond ridiculous, utterly foolish, Jon’s fingers itched to check his collar and smooth down his hair.

“More reports for you, sir, and some refreshments,” she said with a smile, and Jon was transfixed, hardly noticing when she delicately placed the files on his desk and unloaded the rest of the tray.

When she stepped back and stood primly in front of him, Jon coughed and, unable to look directly at her - again, he was an idiot - muttered, “Thank god for chocolate biscuits.”

Hearing her chuckle softly, Jon met her eyes as she smothered a grin and said, “I wanted to say, sir, that I’m glad you won. I’d much rather give you chocolate biscuits than the other guy.”

Tapping his fingers on his desk, Jon stammered, “I’m glad too - not that I won, well yes… but for the chocolate biscuits. My favourite.”

Sansa nodded and began to back away, and Jon couldn’t help but lean forward, randomly saying in a rush, “Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t, sir. Don’t worry.”

And then she was gone. 

***

“Ah, Sansa,” Jon said as he showed Mr Luwin out of his office, seeing her stood outside, poised to knock.

“Good evening, sir,” she replied, stepping past him to deliver whatever it was she carried to his desk.

With a nod, she’d almost left the room, when, without meaning to, Jon said her name.

When she turned, Jon took a deep breath, scrambling for something to say, his tongue heavy in his mouth. It never normally was like that.

“It feels wrong that we work in such close proximity every day, and I know so little about you.”

_That was fine, wasn’t it? Merely professional interest in a colleague's life._

“There isn’t much to know. Sir.”

“There must be,” he said, feeling like he was pressing too much and yet unable to stop himself.

“Well, I live with my family and our five huskies,” she said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear and moving closer.

Five huskies… she’d like Ghost then. Which didn’t matter to him in any way, of course.

“And… no boyfriend or fiancé?” 

Jon wanted to bite his own fist at that. _You’re Prime Minister of Great Britain, what are you doing Snow?_

But Sansa just raised an eyebrow and said carefully, “No, I - just broke up with my boyfriend actually. He wasn’t so nice… in the end.” 

Her smile - which he’d noted was usually so bright - faded as her voice did.

“Ah… I could always have him murdered, you know.” Jon tapped the phone to his right, trying to make light of such an idiotic but still very seriously meant comment. “Trained killers just a phone call away.”

But if he’d treated her badly… if he’d hurt her… Jon wouldn’t mind doing it himself.

As he would for anyone.

“Thank you, sir.” Her smile was back, and Jon’s heart thumped oddly against his ribcage when it morphed into a grin, one that was effortlessly charming. “I’ll consider it.”

With that, she ducked out of his office, and Jon leaned back, spinning slowly round in his chair.

Biting his nails, a habit he’d never quite shaken, Jon frowned.

_Oh, fuck._

***

Jon never thought himself a particularly jealous man until that day.

He’d spent much of the day dealing with stressed MPs and incompetent ministers, all whilst avoiding the tabloids which were already set on shredding him, now his two month honeymoon period seemed to be coming to a close.

Apart from Larry the cat, he’d been thankfully alone on the third floor lounge, but soon he wanted a cup of tea, hoping it would help settle him and alleviate the day’s stress, and there was no one there to ask for one.

He’d fended for himself enough times that he could certainly manage to make his own mug of tea, but it’d been a long day and his patience was fraying.

Striding down the staircase, tugging at his hair, Jon had come to a standstill at the bottom and said loudly, “What does a man need to do for a cup of tea round here?”

There was silence for a moment, then Jean, poking her head round the doorframe to look at him across the foyer, said, “Miss Stark is just in Arthur’s office, if you want her.”

 _I do,_ Jon thought absently, then went and pushed open the door to his main assistant’s office.

And found Sansa standing stiffly by the desk with one of Arthur’s interns beside her, too close, his hand touching the ends of her hair.

Jealousy shot through Jon’s veins and he saw red for a moment, hating the boy immediately. Jon wanted him gone.

It was slightly staggering, what came over him and Jon was only able to shove the blinding feeling down when Sansa gasped and shot away from the boy. 

It was then that Jon’s jaw tightened rather than his stomach, as his jealousy was overcome by anger and he clenched his fists. 

“Sansa,” Jon said, wrenching his eyes off the intern, feeling himself soften as he looked over at her. “Would you mind fetching me a cup of tea?” 

The way she studied the carpet before she nodded and then skirted past him made Jon’s heart fracture, and so he spat at the intern, “Name?”

The boy was quaking but Jon felt no pity for him. Not when he’d made Sansa uncomfortable.

“Peter Andrews, sir.”

“Don’t speak to Miss Stark again. Or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Peter blinked at him owlishly and stuttered out a, “Yes, sir,” but Jon was already leaving.

Stalking back to the lounge, Jon huffed at himself. He’d acted like a teenager, days which were far behind him. Sansa was just an employee, he had no right to feel… _that._

He’d just been enforcing appropriate workplace standards. Yes, he’d say that if anyone asked.

He was still scowling when Sansa nudged the door open and he sprang up to help her, ushering her in under his arm, which was yet another idiotic move as she was substantially taller than him. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, pausing to take a steadying breath before asking her what had happened, but she cut in before he could speak.

“Nothing happened, sir,” she said forcefully, seeming to throw off her earlier nerves, “I had never implied anything to him, or. Or led him on.”

“I understand, Sansa, it’s alright.”

Sansa scrunched up her nose adorably, and said, now twisting her hands, “I didn’t want you to have the wrong idea or anything.”

“I could never think badly of you.” Jon swallowed as the words hung between them, almost unbearably honest in Jon’s opinion as he refused to admit to what was there, in his heart, even if his earlier jealousy had brought it uncomfortably to his attention.

“I could never…” Sansa trailed off, leaving yet more silence between them, and Jon felt rather as though he was swaying on a knife-edge, teetering from side to side. “I’ll leave you to your work, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, and when she was gone, Jon pressed a hand to his chest and tried to slow his breathing and clear away his confused thoughts and guilt.

***

It had become a ritual for them, he supposed, formed after their many months working together.

By the time it was time for Sansa to head home, Jon had usually just sat down to begin sifting through the piles of paper on his desk. 

So, Sansa had silently taken it upon herself to fetch him a final cup of tea and something sweet too, before he would dismiss her, always making sure she left on time - he felt a need to make sure she wasn’t being overworked, wasn’t unhappy.

This happened every day and afterwards, when it was long since dark and he was alone beneath the covers, Jon could admit to himself that it was the best few minutes of his day. Especially when she stayed to chat, brightening the slog of his working week.

On weekends, he ached for those few minutes with her.

It was wrong, he knew it. Often after she smiled softly and kindly at him, or when she made a comment which gave him a glimpse into the sharp workings of her mind, Jon would first be overcome with a warmth, which spread through his chest. But then, the guilt would settle in.

And so he did nothing but torment himself and return her smiles.

Sighing, Jon scrubbed his beard, reminding himself to get it cut. A Prime Minister shouldn’t look scruffy. Shouldn’t look like him at all really.

Glancing down, Jon noted that the paper mountain in front of him hadn’t even taken a dint. _Fuck._

Two knocks, and the door was pushed open, revealing Sansa with her customary tray, thankfully with no more reports to saddle him with.

“Any news for me?” Jon said, standing to take the tray from her. It was a vague question and could mean news about work, or news of a more personal variety.

Jon knew which he’d prefer to hear.

“I have no terrible news for you, sir. All is well,” Sansa replied, leaning against the edge of the sofa. She never sat down, by some mutual agreement of theirs. Jon didn’t even know if she wished to and he couldn’t ask. So, Sansa stood and he was endlessly caught off guard and struck with how gorgeous she was.

“For now,” Jon said, biting his nail slightly, then remembering his earlier thoughts, said to her, “Oh, would you mind making a note for Arthur, for him to make me an appointment to get my beard trimmed.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, pulling out a pen to write it down, “Do you not do it yourself?”

“I wouldn’t want to mess it up. It’s scruffy enough as it is.”

“It’s nice,” Sansa said and Jon blinked, taken aback as a blush bloomed on her cheeks. She didn’t take it back though, so Jon was left to consider whether or not he should make an appointment after all.

Coughing lightly, Sansa gestured to the tray. “It’s lemon cakes today, sir.”

They weren’t something Jon usually ate, but Sansa had brought them to him so he’d eat a few.

“I made them actually,” she added, and Jon’s hand shot out to grab one. He would definitely eat some of them now, perhaps all of them.

_I am the most pathetic PM in history. Get it together, Snow._

“They’re great.” Jon spluttered slightly as he spoke, hardly swallowing before he praised them as she deserved to know immediately.

“Thank you,” Sansa replied, shifting on her feet, her eyes flickering to the tray.

As she started to back away, heading for the door, Jon hastened to say, “Merry Christmas,” already mourning the loss of their tea-time chats during the lonely Christmas holiday.

A quiet ‘Merry Christmas’ was all he could give her.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” Sansa said, her eyes sparkling as she smiled. She paused and bit her lip, then left the room, shutting the door behind her and slipping through his fingers.

It took some time for Jon to work his way through the lemon cakes Sansa had made. He savoured each one, licking his lips.

It soon got so late that Jon could feel his eyelids and was unable to stop yawning, but he had to keep going. Needing the space, Jon moved the tray off the table and with one lemon cake left, picked up the plate to balance it in his lap.

And resting underneath the plate, he saw there was an envelope.

Written delicately on the front was his name, and Jon held it gently in his hands. All at once, he rushed to open it, sliding the card out and tossing the envelope aside.

Butterflies filled him, and he shook a little as he opened the card, a simple nativity scene adorning the front of it.

It said:

_Dear Jon,_

_Merry Christmas._

_I didn’t know how to tell you this, what with everything being a little complicated, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you._

_So I just want you to know, that all I want for Christmas is you._

_Love,_

_Sansa._

Jon knew he must look like a fool, but he couldn’t stop himself smiling and laughing and re-reading that small card over and over again.

 _Love Sansa,_ it said. _She’d given him her love._

Feeling as though his heart was going to fly out of his chest, Jon jumped to his feet, punching the air.

He later thanked god there were no cameras in the lounge, as he then started to dance.


End file.
